Season 11.5 [Rewrite: Continuation]

Secrets

A secret is a withheld fact, a scroll of wisdom in misplaced hands. The subject with such a guide thrives as members of the party flounder.

A secret is a missing word, the heisted link of a story. Though one intends for good, a broad time span will total that starting motive for decay to leak in.

Secrets uncoil any bonds between the closest of friends. That is why I convict those who preciously conserve them, for it strives to eradicate our momentary good.

>_<

The gym was clear.

Turner hesitated with a mouth in marvel. No hints of ice were unveiled, but damage was dramatized by the gashes on the concrete wall and floor. Stacked in the center of this feat was a foldable table, a discontent Yulta leader in a corresponding chair with a package at hand.

Regardful, he crept over to zigzag through more beef with the organization, yet as he landed closer, an aura of displeasure and disgust reeked in a miasma off the floor.

It was abnormal. Turner rarely crossed paths with the leader, thus no way to piss the man off, but the glare, grunt, and toss of his head exacted that this man was cross with him.

Whatever the case, it was impossible to steer out of the leader's range of repulsion, and before he was conscious of it, he was at the desk.

Muskrat was riled. "You broke my damn gym. You know how much this shit costs?"

Inflamed, he sneered back. "You think it was by choice? It's not like I want to be an ice zombie."

There was a bottle of vodka in the leader's hand, and he reclaimed a swig. Droplets of alcohol beaded off his lips, and he thumped the remnants off while busting the bottle into the table with a massive thud. "Whatever. You'll be paying for it anyways."

Turner rot in his core. Trystan was correct. This man was willing to use any measure to brandish him as a weapon.

"I'm not your damn pawn," he menacingly bellowed at the leader.

Who was downing the bottle without air. Incredulous, Turner was at a loss when the leader flicked the liquid off.

"Hell ya you are," He burped with a hostile glare. "If you ever want to see that rascal of a child again, do it."

"How do I know if you sick bastards even have her?" He rationalized to the obviously drunken man.

Muskrat licked the last fluid off the container and popped out a card from his coat pocket. Insecure, Turner was at a standstill as video feed of his daughter rendered from it.

"Clover," he unintentionally mumbled in relief.

The kid was drawing in the corner of a room. The video quality wasn't effective for color, but it was capable to where there was no question that this was a life feed link.

Unwittingly, a hand strut over to the card when Muskrat collared it. "She's a cute one."

He pocketed the card into his coat, eyes enchanted over the feed. "Real, real cute," he reported with a predatory smirk.

Turner didn't agree with the guttural mood of his voice. There was a sick, demented growl that uttered out into the gym, his voice switching a tone for the worse. Muskrat stared ahead in a trance for a few seconds before a check-up on the conversation.

Snake eyes barred their fangs at the officer, and there was a primal instinct at heart to what those words meant. "You," he trembled, heart as cold as ice and nerves shackled to the bone.

"Here's what we'll do," he decked his terms out for the young man. "You work for me for the rest of your life. In return, you get a roof over your head, provision and what-not, and a child I have yet to have fun with."